


emetic

by ymirjotunn



Category: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Despair, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Other, child sexual assault mention (not depicted but mentioned), limited violence and gore, sexual assault warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 19:10:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12488836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymirjotunn/pseuds/ymirjotunn
Summary: enoshima takes kamukura to meet her disciples. the congregation rises to meet it





	emetic

**Author's Note:**

> kmkr uses it pronouns solely prior to the program, and adds they afterwards. thru this fic they're using it/its
> 
> sometimes u just have to process your trauma thru fic at 9 am in the middle of class and that's just how that is
> 
> (please. Please mind the warnings. i had to leave class early today b/c of writing this. take care of urself.)

She takes Kamukura to meet them, every one of them with glazed eyes and eager mouths, trembling hands. Kamukura looks down at each one, each one of her shivering soldiers, and makes all the observation it needs in a split second of a glance.

 

Enoshima has twisted them like wet towels, wrung every drop from them, soaked their dry and thirsting forms again in despair. Sickly-sweet, thick, slick and oily, sticking. It drips from their eyes, hollow eyes, manic eyes, tired eyes, not in tears but in something else, intangible, impossible to wipe away.

 

None of them catch Kamukura’s eye, really, but one is death-skinny and long, whittled down to a brightness that pulls at every joint and orifice, like it’s straining to jump from the form it lives on. That in itself is, at the very least, different. None of the others are bright, or if they ever were they haven’t managed to keep it. And this person’s brightness isn’t a gift, anyway. It’s a death shroud more than anything, which - perhaps strangely - no other Despair has adopted.

 

Kamukura believes they’re not looking for death, at least not their own deaths. They’re looking for something else. And that’s why Kamukura is here as well, isn’t it?

 

These people are tired ( _ not as tired as I am _ ) and dead ( _ not as dead as I am _ ) and bored ( _ not as bored as I am _ ) and they revel in it, and that revelry gives them enough energy, enough force and will and momentum to do what Kamukura cannot. They will seek, and Kamukura will follow.

 

Enoshima thinks that Kamukura follows because it finds all of this interesting, as she does. She thinks her demonstration changed its mind, that it saw the panic and the fear in shaking hands and wide eyes and relished it, that it saw something  _ novel _ in the way blood splashed and smeared, in the white of exposed bone, in torn skin and teeth.

 

It did.

 

But it was only for a moment, for a split blinding second in a yawning stretch of an eternity, and then it was gone. Whatever it was that Kamukura had managed to grasp - clutching and tearing and clawing inside of their chest, unfamiliar and screaming and searingly bright - was lost.

 

Death is only interesting for that fleeting moment, and its novelty fades faster than it ever manages to approach.

 

Kamukura knows this phenomenon from personal experience.

 

The one wearing their death shroud speaks, and Kamukura’s eyes refocus on them, on their mouth as it forms each word. Their voice is hushed, quivering, caught between repulsion and reverence: “This...is the Ultimate Hope?”

 

Despair whispers at the word, shuffles around the dying one, bumping shoulders and legs in a hum of distaste, displeasure.

 

Enoshima, for her part, doesn’t seem fazed by the utterance, just beams at the dying one and says, so fondly it’s nearly vicious, “What a  _ stupid _ question, Komaeda-kun.”

 

She grabs Kamukura by the shoulders and pulls it close, so close the smell of perfume and blood seeps into its throat and expands, chokes it from inside its lungs. It doesn’t flinch, even as her hair drips over its face, scratches at its skin, even as her nails dig into the flesh of its shoulder, drawing blood.

 

“He  _ was _ the Ultimate Hope,” she’s saying, playing with her tie, the tie she took from its eyes like a trophy. “But he’s ours now, aren’t you, Kamu-ku-ra- _ kuuuun _ .” She coos the name, curls it in her mouth, poisons it and lets it loop around Kamukura’s neck, a spoken noose that the honorific only tightens.

 

Someone among the Despair cries out, ecstatic and mournful and agonized, and leaps from the group, prostrating their body on the ground, hair long and haphazardly chopped. Enoshima doesn’t even look at them, doesn’t move, just kicks them in the head with a snort, and they let out a long, blissful moan into the dirt.

 

At that, Kamukura lets its gaze drift to the ground. The Despair’s whole body is shaking, hands outstretched to clutch at Enoshima’s ankles, and when Kamukura looks up again the rest of the Despair is in a similar state, a roiling throng of twisting rapture and lust and violence, all clutching at each other, a chorus of gasps and moans and shouts and weeping that’s too much too much too much, rolling over Kamukura in a crushing suffocating wave of something, something that feels like sickness.

 

It isn’t a good feeling, but it’s  _ something _ , something something something, and - because this is what it’s here for, isn’t it - Kamukura lets itself sink into it, revel in it, clutch at it, pull it closer until the feeling is too much and it realizes it has fallen to its knees, the sting of gravel singing along their skin even through the fabric of its slacks.

 

Its face is frozen, stone-still, the same expression as always, but it’s as if Despair can  _ smell _ whatever it’s feeling, crowding around its form, surrounding it with choking sobs and grasping hands and the magnification of the feeling, crackling and growing and pushing inside of Kamukura’s lungs: those fumes of perfume and blood crystallized into unforgiving shards. It is being sliced open, inside, and Despair knows it, feels it, wants it.

 

Someone grabs it by the hair -  _ Junko _ , it thinks, mind almost disappointingly blank despite whatever’s whirling inside of the rest of it - and yanks it back, and Kamukura makes a sound at the hot pain-pleasure of it, lets itself be pulled back, kneeling and exposed.

 

It thinks briefly of people in suits filing into its room, pushing it down gently-firmly on its cot, carefully undoing button by button, slow and deliberate.

 

But this is nothing like that. This is rough and angry and intimate and even more than that Kamukura thinks maybe the sick feeling is what it feels like to want something so it opens its mouth, lets three fingers all from different hands slip inside, pulling at its tongue, lets bruising hands push at the small of its back and at its breasts, lets its hair be pulled and twisted and ripped from its scalp, lets its shoulders and collarbone be bitten and torn, lets, lets, lets, lets

 

and for once nothing is boring

 

and Despair is a swarm of locusts, descending upon Kamukura and devouring its flesh and stripping it clean, and when they are done they depart, leaving the bones of their prey on the ground, in the dirt-turned-mud, suit torn to shreds and stained.

 

The sick feeling is still there. Feelings, Kamukura thinks, never last, if they ever arrive at all, but this one has stayed, dry ice in its stomach, in its blood.

 

It is… exhilarating.

 

It thinks that Despair is gone, all of it, but red-and-black moves into their field of vision, blurred by tears and blood and whatever else is stinging Kamukura’s eyes. A sharp nail traces a laceration along its collarbone, pushing it deeper, and Kamukura briefly wonders if - despite the fact that they do not and will not scar - her touch will make the line last, will corrode it well enough to make even its skin stutter as it tries to heal.

 

“I told you you’d like it here, Izuru,” she says, low and throaty and deadly serious.

 

Kamukura meets her eyes, blinking away the grit in its own. “It’s tolerable,” it says, flat, even as the sick bubbles in its stomach.

 

“It’s different, see?” Her voice has taken on a higher pitch, excited, hot and fast. “We’re all  _ trash _ , Izuru. Every last one of us. Even  _ you _ , even Mr. Perfect, all your sludgey yucky corpsey nasty dirty spoiled bored  _ bull _ shit.” She punctuates every adjective with a stab to its chest, leaving little wells of blood. “All we ever had to do was quit pretending we were meant for something better. And it feels  _ fucking _ good, doesn’t it, Izuru?”

 

When it doesn’t respond she tilts her head back and laughs loud and sick and screaming. “Feels fucking  _ awful _ !”

 

Despair didn’t see fit to push between Kamukura’s legs, but Enoshima seems impossibly fascinated with the space. She stays straddling Kamukura for what feels like hours, talking and touching and playing with its hair, reopening wounds that have just started to close, pushing and pulling at the sick feeling to make it last, even as it cools and curdles.

 

Kamukura doesn’t pass out, despite the blood loss, but it does drift, and it thinks, faintly, between sharp stabs of Enoshima’s words, that she is like the parade of men in suits, after all, only wrapped in a different skin and painted in neon. She, like them, is deliberate, lacks intimacy, takes time where it need not be taken.

 

The sick feeling fades into a nauseous ache, all too familiar, all too boring, and Kamukura decides that Despair is more interesting than its goddess.

**Author's Note:**

> this is NOT part of the ongoing series i've been doing because this is not a field trip at all.


End file.
